Ode
by Soignante
Summary: In which Christine questions "The Ode to Joy"


**The Ode**

Erik's leg dangled nonchalantly from the edge of the rigging where he reclined, enjoying the sweetly tart apple slices Christine packed for this occasion. He was buzzed, flying higher on Beethoven than he ever had on syringes full of questionable liquids. Near him stood Christine, her hands twined in the tail ends of rigging ropes, leaning her full weight into them, allowing her body to sway loosely. She'd been standing like that for many minutes now, consternation furrowing her smooth brow.  
Below them, the audience gathered its belongings and began its collective migration into the parking lot. At first, he thought her puzzlement related to the people bustling below, but their absence did not register in her face and her eyes were far away even as the lighting dimmed and darkened. His apple slices disappeared along with the glow of the house lights, but still she leaned there.  
"You aren't happy, Christine?" Regretfully, he abandoned his comfortable position to stand beside her, looking out into the nothingness of the darkened room, trying to join her – wherever she was.  
"Huh?" Christine's deep brown eyes tightened their focus and flitted to him. "Oh! No. I'm happy."  
"The orchestra, then? It was not to your liking?" He shifted uncomfortably. The evening was supposed to be perfect: a 'real' date, and not some fabricated whimsy of his own making.

"They were fine." Finally, she cued into his growing distress. "They were great, actually. The picnic, too. We should do this more often." Leaning back a bit, she disengaged from the rope and took his hand, fiddling with the gold ring where it dangled loosely, saved from falling only by the gnarled knucklebone. "It's just… That music. The Ode."  
As though that explained everything, Christine walked back along the rigging, barely seeming to register their motion, stepping lightly from platform to rope ladder, to the floor. Erik swung along behind her, pleased that she moved with such easy grace only a few short months after joining him to hide from the world. '_A sabbatical_…" she'd called it. '_Moving in_' was more to the point.

Regardless, her reassurance soothed his nerves: his date had not failed and Christine was happy with what he provided. Now, more curious than concerned, he followed her as she made a new climb up the rungs of the iron access ladder and out onto the roof. Once there, she perched on the low wall beside a cracked stone gargoyle and stared out over the city, her thoughts claiming her once again.  
"…the Ode?" he prompted softly. "The way it was performed?"  
"The music itself. It doesn't say 'joy' to me. Not the way I feel it, anyway. Is that what it's like for you?" She looked back over her shoulder where he stood impassively surveying the twinkling lights below them. "Joy?"  
No answer came but the muted roar of car engines, punctuated by the odd _honk_ or _slam_. He had joined her, and his eyes, too, were soft and far away.  
"I mean, I've heard it hundreds of times. Everyone has. It's got to be the most famous piece of classical music in the world. There's a ukulele version, you know? But, doesn't it seem," she paused, hunted for the word, the precise word, to formulate her confusion, "_ferocious_ sometimes? And is that _joy_ to you?"  
The question stopped his voice and his thought. The night grew older. Traffic died down. People disappeared from sidewalks and corners. Lights turned off and the full moon took over the job of illuminating the rooftop. At last, he spoke.  
"When I am there, and the voices of the chorus rise all round me, it is." Erik moved closer to her, noticing the precise moment when her nearness stopped the cool wind from lifting the fabric of his coat. The halo of her warmth never ceased to delight him.  
"Yes, but that isn't _your_ joy, is it?" She slid back the last three inches on her perch to lean against the bony hardness of his chest. "It's borrowed."  
Why should he feel defensive? It made no sense, but his shoulders were curling inward, and every muscle tightened. And she felt it; of course, she felt it.  
"Oh, don't, my Angel." She pivoted, drawing him closer, wrapping her leg around his and gazing up into his clouding expression. "It's an honest question."  
"It's an unfair question," came the quick retort. Erik's smooth baritone belied the bitterness of his words. "I…I don't…" He shook his head, regrouped. "My experiences of joy have been tightly circumscribed. If I revel in a borrowed flight of fancy, I fail to see how it is any less _mine_."  
"I guess it isn't," but there was an unresolved chord on her face and in her tone. Releasing him, she slid from her seat and headed back inside.  
They completed their nightly rituals in silence and settled into bed well before sunrise. When it was clear that she was deeply asleep and would say no more on the subject, the unanswered question ate at him. It was all very well to tease a listener with such an ending. A conversation like this, though, demanded resolution.

The headphones Christine had insisted on buying were uncomfortable, but excellent in quality. Her laptop contained a treasure trove of music. While his beloved slept, he combed through recordings of performances that had swept him away before, and was filled again with Beethoven's channeling of human joy. Beethoven's. Not his. Then he listened to Sibelius. Mozart. Debussy. She was right. She was _right,_ and it was damnable. The _Ode's_ joy wasn't his joy, and _Au Claire de Lune's_ peace wasn't _his _peace.

So, he searched his own mind, insistent on finding what joy was his. All he could hear was the sound of Christine's song and her touch and her glance, and those sounds were soft. They were woodwinds and harps and bows barely touching strings.  
But the moment she asked to come stay with him for a while. And the moment she agreed to stay with him forever! _That_ surged and sung flaming choruses. Erik chuckled to himself and snatched up his violin.  
Bleary-eyed and wobbly from a late night and glorious sleep, Christine shrugged into her fluffy robe. The aroma of Erik's delicious masala tea wafted under the door, and she followed its siren song into the hall…  
And was promptly popped into wakefulness by _Joy_. Soaring madly from the dulcet sweetness with which he was accustomed to serenade her to a fierce triumphal fire that was reflected in his eyes as he played, Erik pressed his answer.  
"I see," she laughed, when he lowered his instrument and leaned casually against the wall, challenging her with the arrogant glint in his eye.  
"And you, Christine?" He smirked, remembering her consternation of the night before, sure she would still waver in uncertainty.  
In answer, she reached up and trailed the tips of her fingers lightly against the back of his neck, combing through his wisps of hair. Gently, she pulled him down until her mouth was level with his ear.  
"My joy?" With pleasure, she noted his shiver and his pupils dilating to take in the whole of his pale iris. "…lies more in the playing of my instrument, than in the music it produces, most beloved."


End file.
